


All the King's Horses

by miasmatrix



Series: All The King's Horses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Post Season 3, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first thing Sherlock thought when John called him was: "Finally". He immediately felt bad for it, but there it was. Finally, Mary had left."</p><p> (My shot at trying to fix season three and giving Mary an ending that... well, I think she deserves a BAMF ending. Not so much for S03/03, but for the two episodes before that. I really liked her then.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Sherlock thought when John called him was: "Finally". He immediately felt bad for it, but there it was. Finally, Mary had left. The relief he felt was out of proportion and inappropriate in the face of John's distress, and he tried to hide it, but he couldn't ignore that for the first time since coming back from the dead, the hard lump in his stomach had dissolved. He gave himself a metaphorical shake and managed: "What do you mean, gone?"  
  
"I came home, and she was gone", John said, slowly, enunciating carefully, as if Sherlock was being a bit dense about it. "It's all - blown up."  
  
"Stay where you are. I'm on my way."

  
He rode the cab to John's home deep in thought. His head ran with possible scenarios, but none of them really matched an eight months pregnant woman. He knew Mary was still fit and fast on her feet, and her marksmanship surely hadn't suffered, but - why was he even thinking about that? Clearly, something out of the ordinary had happened, she wasn't over at a friend's after a row with John. But what did he mean, blown up?  
  
That latter remark became clear when he arrived at John's house where dozens of neighbours lingered on the fringe of what looked like a valid attempt at blowing up his house. The front door stood ajar, the upper windows were open with the curtains billowing out as if something had exploded inside. Paper littered the shoddily mown lawn. Sherlock stooped to pick up a scorched sheet of paper and identified it as a crossword, half finished. Another was a page from a photo album. John's, of course. He discarded the crossword and kept the page from the photo album. This was bad indeed. John waited for him at the front door, sitting on the doorstep with his head in his hands. None of the neighbours milling about had found it in them to approach him, and the police hadn't found their way here yet, though someone must have called them.  
Inside, the destruction was massive - nothing, literally nothing had remained in its place. Tables had been turned over, chairs lay smashed, cupboards had been overturned and crockery strewn all over the place. Upstairs, their bedroom was a mess - someone had looked for something in a hurry, had thrown clothing on a messy pile and then, apparently, at some point, a grenade had gone off in the study the Watsons were turning into a nursery, the laptops were fried and the inner drywall, half painted with a meadow and happy sheep, had a gaping hole in it.  
  
Of Mary, there was no sign. Sherlock tried to make sense of the place, but it was so much, so much debris, that clues would go overlooked, and that in itself was insufferable. But what was worse, he thought, was that all of this was either John's or Mary's, their entire life lay blown apart and shredded and discarded right there for anyone to see. He felt the absurd impulse to cover it all because he knew what would happen once the police arrived, and so did John.  
John, who stood next to him, had turned into a negative presence beside him, lost and too stunned to be much use. Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. I could use your help here, he thought, I could use my partner now. I don't think I can solve this one alone.  
  
"Did you get your gun?"  
  
John just nodded.  
  
"Anything else we should get rid of?"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Where did she keep her gear?"  
  
"Her - gear?"  
  
John wouldn't be of much use. Sherlock sighed. Relations never were. Victims never were, and John had turned into both. Had turned into a client.  
  
"Focus, John. Her tactical gear. Her guns. Her knives and grenades. Like the one she used on your study."  
  
"You mean, she did this?"  
  
John looked at him incredulously. Sherlock sighed again. You do forget how outrageously stupid people were when it came to their loved ones.  
  
"Three intruders, looking for something. Mary was up here, probably resting. She had a cup of tea, chamomile, to calm her upset stomach. Maybe she slept when she heard them, maybe she was reading that novel over there. In any case, something happened that prompted her to look for something, something that must have been hidden in these drawers. Money, maybe? A passport? No? John. Concentrate. What did she hide?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, I - I don't know! Intruders? But-"

"No blood, no bullet holes, no casings anywhere. That is a good sign. No struggle. I would think she eluded them, whoever they were."

"Burglars?"

"John."

"Sherlock I - I refuse to-"

Ignoring John, who hyperventilated and clearly wouldn't be any use for the moment, Sherlock squatted and picked up a piece of black plastic-like material from underneath the dresser. It did look familiar. Where had he seen it before? It looked like it would fit... yes, that was it. "Americans", he said. It was a piece of tactical gear, shoulder, and the hue pointed to USA Special Forces.

"What?"

Sherlock stood and fished for his cellphone. "Americans, John. They came looking for her. I would say the past has finally caught up with your wife."

Minutes later, the crime scene (a crime scene, Sherlock thought, John's home had turned into a crime scene, that's what it was) crawled with police, and John and Sherlock fell back behind the police line - after all, Sherlock had seen all he had to see. Lestrade arrived a little later with the inevitable Donovan and Anderson in tow, and when he saw John, he all but ran up to him and drew him into a giant hug, mumbling "We'll find her, I promise we'll find her" over and over, which Sherlock found awfully ambitious, but John seemed to believe him, and that was all that mattered, really. John looked like he couldn't decide whether to break into action and do something to find his wife, or break down and cry, and Sherlock thought anything that encouraged action over premature grief could only help. As Donovan sat him down and quietly asked questions over a cup of awful coffee from a thermos, Sherlock caught up with Lestrade.

"What do you think happened, Sherlock?"

"The same as you."

"Very flattering. No, really."

"Someone came and tried to take her, and she bolted."

"Yeah. That simple?"

"That simple."

"The question remains: who? And where did she go?"

"Who: Her former employer, probably tying up a loose end. Where? I don't know yet. But I do know someone who might."

"Need a ride?"

"No. But do me a favour and keep John occupied. I'll pick him up at NSY when I'm ready."

  
Sherlock knew he should try to keep emotion out of this, but it was hard. Seeing John at his broken house, staring at his missing wife's clothes, at his desecrated home, the blown-up nursery, that was hard. He had looked so small for once, an ageing man with greying hair and sensible shoes, caught up in a maelstrom, the ordinary life he had tried to build for himself blown to pieces. When he thought of that, when he saw John's face, when he realized John was looking up to Sherlock to help him find his wife, he couldn't concentrate on the case any more. Sherlock pressed a hand against his lips and tried to drive the thoughts out of his head and focus, but he hadn't been able to gather a single useful thought until he showed up at Mycroft's.  
  
  
Preliminaries weren't necessary. Mycroft knew. The way he lounged in his chair, the way he stapled his fingers, the knit brow as he saw Sherlock march in - of course he knew. He'd probably seen the entire thing live on cam. Sherlock flopped down in the visitor's chair opposite the desk.  
  
"Do you really want to go there?" Mycroft asked without preamble.  
  
"He's my friend."  
  
"That's exactly why I ask. I'm giving you a choice, Sherlock. A unique opportunity to rid John and yourself of certain complicating factors."  
  
It wasn't like Sherlock hadn't considered that. "I made a vow, and I intend to keep it."

"So many vows are broken each day, even some not made as lightly and with as little background information as your premature little self-effacing display of loyalty. Don't you think it's time for reason?"

"What does reason have to do with this?"

"Nothing so far. My point exactly."

"Back to your question, yes, I do want to go there. I want to see the feed. In its entirety. Unedited."

"What do you want to accomplish with this, Sherlock? You must know you won't ever get him back as long as Mary stays in the picture."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Tell me you had nothing to do with this."

Mycroft lifted his legs from the table where he'd propped them up and leaned forward. "I don't play with amateurs, as you should know by now. But no, I had nothing to do with this." He swivelled the screen around so Sherlock could see. The footage was excellent, colour, sound, one showed the house from outside, one the back, and two cameras inside showed the Watson living room and kitchen. "Three operatives", Mycroft said, "Our allies in our war against terror. Who sent them? I don't know yet. Yes. Don't look at me like that. It's a covert operation, obviously. And none of our doing. I'd have known. She's off limits as long as she doesn't take up her old line of work. Did she, by the way? No? Sure? Let's settle for 'unlikely' in the meantime. Here. She hears them, runs upstairs and out of sight. They are very careful. Cover each other. Move from room to room. Then, a crash from upstairs, where we don't have cameras because you specifically told us not to install any. The three intruders gather and move upstairs. By then, she leaves by the back door and carries a small backpack. End of feed."  
  
"Fascinating", Sherlock said. "By installing half a million quid worth of surveillance equipment, you managed to acquire the exact amount of information I gathered from looking at the crime scene. I applaud your thriftiness."

"That's not all", Mycroft said. "We have been able to follow her through London and a good part of England already. She's on her way to Wales."

"Wales?"

"Did you not know? That's where they spend their first vacation as a couple. When they had just met. Very romantic, but a curious choice for a young couple."

"You mean-"

"Yes. I have reason to believe she has a stash there."  
  
Sherlock let that sink in. Mary was on her way to reconnect with her past, get her stash and then - then what? Tie up loose ends and start over? Go to ground somewhere? She couldn't assume that, now that she'd been found, simply killing the agents would solve her problem. She'd been found.

"You see where this is going."

"John."

"And you, Sherlock. She did kill you before."

"She's John's wife."

"That didn't stopped her last time."

"She's pregnant with his child."

Mycroft didn't say anything to that. The child was an unknown, a complication she hadn't foreseen. Sherlock recalled the look of shock on her face, surprise, fear. Had she ever meant to stay with John at all? Or had he simply offered a convenient place to hide for a while? She'd certainly never meant to grow roots as deep as she had.

"Now you see", said Mycroft. "I told you not to get involved."

"Who do you have on site?"

"On site? Sherlock. Nobody! There are foreign operatives on UK ground. Do you honestly think we can acknowledge that by sending in our own? Think of the scandal."

"You gave her up."

"She was never in the picture." Mycroft leaned forward again and practically glowered at his brother: "And if she had been, she would have forfeited her privilege the second she killed my little brother."

"I forgave her. So can you."

"You forgave her for John Watson. I don't share your affliction." He sat back, indicating that this conversation was over. "I cannot protect her, Sherlock. And maybe you shouldn't."

Sherlock stood, turned his back on Mycroft. Just before he left, Mycroft said: "She has an hour on you. Maybe ninety minutes. There's a helicopter waiting at NSY. That's all I can do."

Sherlock nodded without turning around. He was almost out the door when he heard Mycroft add: "Good luck."


	2. Chapter 2

They'd locked John up in Lestrade's office and lowered the blinds. When Sherlock arrived, he'd stopped shouting, but Lestrade shot him a warning glance before he unlocked the door. "I know", said Sherlock.  
When he saw John, Sherlock thought that John was probably the only person in the world he had a soothing effect on. John relaxed, he didn't charge, he actually sat down and put his head in his hands in a gesture so distraught Sherlock's heart broke.  
  
"John."

"Have you found her?"

"Not yet."

"She bolted."

Sherlock sat down next to John, close enough so they wouldn't be overheard, close enough their knees touched. "What do you know about Wales?"

"Wales?"

"Did she ever go to Wales with you?"

"Wales?" John seemed genuinely puzzled, then his face lit up and he said: "Wales, yes, we went to Wales. Our first vacation together."

"Where to? Can you show me?"

"Elan Valley. It was Elan Valley. We stayed at a cottage there. She told me she had family there. A lie, of course." John rubbed his face. "The baby, Sherlock. The baby."

Sherlock put an arm around him and pulled him in. John's hands came up and held on to Sherlock's shirt, and they sat like that for a little while longer until Lestrade came in and told them the helicopter was ready.  
  
  
It was curious, Sherlock thought, that he'd be the one to clean up John's mess. If someone had asked him, he would have thought it would always be the other way around. John providing support when Sherlock crashed, when he was bored, when he craved for drugs or a case or just anything. He had been the one cleaning the dishes and making sure they didn't drown in their own filth. Not that Sherlock couldn't do that on his own, he proved right now he could. But John was there, reassuring, solid, just there. He'd been there when he'd thought The Woman had died. And now Sherlock would pay him back.  
The scenery passed by underneath. London gave way to Suburbia, then Greater Ruralshire, and finally, Sherlock was able to glimpse the artificial lakes and dams that made Elan Valley. A peculiar place, he thought, something you might choose for a vacation if you were a nature enthusiast, which he knew John wasn't. Was Mary? He had no idea.  
  
The flight had restored John somewhat. He'd fallen into a routine he knew and adopted a stance Sherlock hadn't seen on him for a while now (since you died, whispered a voice in him, he lost that when you jumped). He'd nodded in the direction of the pilot and taken the lead, letting Sherlock follow suit when they addressed the local force, rushed through a half-hearted induction and, after some negotiation that turned to barely concealed threats, managed to requisition one of the cars.  The locals would give them a head start and follow them later. Of all things, Sherlock and John wanted to avoid a man-hunt. Especially Sherlock had an inkling how she would react to that.  
  
That had been a matter of debate - before they'd left, Lestrade and Mycroft had had a shouting match over the phone that neither had actually won. "She's being chased by kidnappers, maybe murderers!" Lestrade had yelled, and Mycroft had retorted: "I don't think they need your protection." To this Lestrade had said that he'd had enough of his poor attempts at humour, and that a pregnant woman was on the run from, from, someone, and Mycroft had insisted that as long as nothing had actually happened apart from a woman blowing up her house, which was her God-given right, especially pregnant and hormonally unstable, and for which she would be charged eventually, when she showed up, if ever, he was in no position to send certain operatives after her, and if every case of suspected arson resulted in Scotland Yard to be involved, he thought Lestrade would soon be very busy indeed. Lestrade had spewed forth a string of curses that were potentially punishable, yet creative, and John and Sherlock had chosen that moment to slip away, take the helicopter, and text Mycroft and Lestrade while in the air.  
  
  
  
It took them a few minutes to get from their landing site to the visitor centre parking lot. When Sherlock had just parked the car, John rushed ahead. "She must be here somewhere. If she went to the cottage, she had to take this path."  
Sherlock nodded, the cluster of holiday homes that overlooked the dam were easy to see on the slope above and there really was only one way over and up, along the crown where, during summer, folks would sell ice cream and crepes. But now, the stalls were empty, and they and a few regularly spaced, squat towers that gave access to the power station below provided ample cover. On both sides, the water being low, the dam dropped a considerable distance. It was an excellent trap, as if built for funnelling prey. Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

"If she went that way."

"Mycroft says she did."

"Does your brother have cameras everywhere?"

"Almost everywhere", Sherlock said, distracted, and stopped.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Not sure... Do you see those men over there?"

"Up at the dam?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he stalked ahead, eyes on the suspects.

"Do you think that's them?"

"No, they're... someone new."

"Another party?"

"Same. Come."

Sherlock didn't care any more if they'd be spotted. He ran. If Mary was still at the cottage, they might be able to reach her before the agents did. And then what? He simply didn't know how she would react, he found her absolutely unpredictable. His bullet wound smarted, which he knew to be just a memory, a reminder of what Mary was capable of when cornered. John's footsteps sounded behind him. He only hoped Mary would understand they were there to help, to save her, but that hadn't worked back when she'd shot him, and he doubted it would work now, but he had no choice. They crossed the dam and hastened up the path that led to the cottages.

"Which one is it? Which one, John?"

"Give me a second." John spun around, trying to get his bearings. Suddenly, Sherlock felt more than he saw that they were not alone up here either, dragged John into a nook behind a small power station and pushed him into the shadows. "Shhh. Look."  
A group of five passed them on their way down towards the dam. And they were definitely professionals. "We have to find her", John hissed.

"We will. Come."

They passed behind the station and bled into the shadows in between the cottages, sneaking from house to house. "That one", mouthed John. "Over there."  
They approached the cottage from the rear and kept down carefully. Sherlock's plan had been to peek into one of the windows, but they were too far up. He listened for a while and thought he could hear someone moving inside, but that might have been the sound of the dam. They'd have to take the front door after all. They rounded the corner just in time to see a petite figure, hugely pregnant, hurry down the slope already far below from them and towards the dam. Sherlock caught John's arm, spun him around and pressed a hand across his mouth just in time to stifle his shout. "Ssshh. Don't give her away."

"She's walking into a trap", hissed John.

"Not if we get to her in time. But silently."  
  
They kept low and to the shadows as much as they could while hastening down the trail, trying to catch up with Mary. But she was quick. Faster than she had any right to be, thought Sherlock. He was about to screw it all and run when he saw they were already almost at the dam. The crown seemed deserted, but Sherlock knew better.

Mary almost ran now, she was out in the open, her white-blond hair aflame above her tan jacket. She kept her hand on the gun in her pocket, he knew even from here, an open threat to anyone who could read the signs, and she hastened on, eager to cross the open space and get back to the parking lot, to her stolen car and to a new life. John broke into a sprint when he saw the figures emerge from the power station closest to them, cutting them off from Mary, he called her name and she turned, she saw John and the agents barrel down on her and turned again, discarded her backpack and ran ahead with more grace than she should have had. But ahead, another squad emerged and charged towards her.

She turned and spun, assessed the situation, spun again, hair flying, and Sherlock ran, tried to get to her in time, shouting "Back down! Don't corner her!" again and again. He passed John and almost made it past the squad on his side before one of them tackled him as easily as swatting a fly, whacked his head against the tarmac and almost knocked him out. He shouted "Don't corner her!" and "Mary, don't" and other things and fought against the man restraining him, and he smelled blood and sweat and asphalt, things he would always now connect with the vision of Mary, smiling at him or at John or just in general, stepping onto the dam's wall, lifting her face to the sky and jumping, and from now on, he would always be haunted by John's wail, heartbroken and aborted as someone pistol-whipped him into submission.  



	3. Chapter 3

John was in shock. Sherlock knew that. Paramedics fussed with his head wound. Tried to treat Sherlock's abrasions. His bleeding nose. But Sherlock could only see John, John inside the ambulance, John, sickly grey, breathing too fast, eyes wide. Pushing them all away. Mad. Lashing out. An animal in shock. Don't corner him, he thought, that's dangerous, you don't know him, and he tried to reach him, but he swayed on his feet. Not him as well. Not John. Please. Leave him. "Leave him", he said and tried to walk towards the ambulance and it was like in a dream when you just can't seem to walk, there was something wrong with his legs and suddenly, the pavement rushed up to meet him.

* * *

"We found several passports, a significant amount of cash, and two pistols in her backpack", Lestrade explained. "You were right, she had a stash. Several, probably."

Sherlock only half listened. His head hurt, and this was not important. He knew all of this already. Or had at least suspected. Besides, she was dead now. What did it matter.

"Have you..."

"No. We haven't found her body yet. She must have been washed down the river. She'll be found."

Remembering bodies in the morgue, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Mary's hair like a halo, her eyes wide, her smile jubilant as she jumped. "Where is he?"

Lestrade looked to Mycroft, who gave a tiny nod.

 

* * *

The hotel room was small, but this was London after all, and it was one of the better, newer ones, Sherlock thought, all clean lines and minimal décor. At first, that was all he saw - the epitome of hotel-ness, the bed, the desk and chair, the telly, two bedside tabled, a cupboard and the door to the bathroom. He's not here, he thought, but Mycroft was so rarely wrong. He did check the door then and found John there, curled up on the floor with his back to the bathtub. Sherlock's head ran with thoughts of overdose and suicide, but John was breathing, was moving, opened his eyes and waved at him with a "go away" gesture. Sherlock didn't speak then, he just picked him up, threading an arm under John's, dragged him into the bedroom and deposited him on the bed.  
"Go away", said John.  
"No", said Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock didn't know what to do. It was an alien experience. John went through something like a particularly nasty case of withdrawal, Sherlock had no other words for this. John lay very still, breathing shallowly, staring at nothing, then all of a sudden he'd bury his head in his arms and bite his hand and howl, and Sherlock would drag him into an embrace and hold him like you hold someone who vomits, but instead of bile, he'd expel bitterness and agony and madness so thick and black Sherlock shied away from it but held on, holding his head, holding his chest when he dry-heaved with pain and then went so limp Sherlock thought he'd died. He seemed to cycle through bouts of total exhaustion, of rage and agony and then wept so desperately it was almost impossible to bear. And I'm only looking at it, Sherlock thought. 

Sherlock cried with him, silently, when John raged and wept, wishing he could take it all away and not knowing how. Aware that the only way out was through. He held him when he raged and when he wept and when he slumped against him in exhaustion, only sneaking out of the hotel room once to buy water and food. John drank, but wouldn't eat, and neither would Sherlock.  
Unable to shut down his brain for long, Sherlock calculated that the intervals were getting longer, that John seemed to rest more and rage less, and that lucidity came back to him at some point on the second day. John got up like a walking corpse, went into the bathroom and showered laboriously. Sherlock insisted he didn't lock the door. When he came back, he didn't look better. But Sherlock knew it was one small victory of many to come, this first concession to life and how it goes on even though we don't want it to.

* * *

Even though usually, he would have despised being stuck in a room for this long with nothing to do, Sherlock found it was enough to lie there, watch the lights from outside flicker across the ceiling and listen to John's breathing that went from too fast and panicked to something resembling normalcy, but what "normal" meant, would ever mean, he couldn't say. Their heads were so close he could feel John's hair bristle against his brow, and he thought that he'd never, never been this close to John for this long. The thought sparked an emotion Sherlock buried quickly.

"She was-" John started and stopped immediately, as if speaking of Mary in past tense was too much to bear. Sherlock waited, trying not to let John know he was holding his breath.

"She was something else." John concluded.

For a long time, none spoke, and Sherlock thought that if they'd lie here like that forever, listening to London go to sleep and wake up around them, that would be okay, because it felt right then and there that there wouldn't ever be anything else, that they'd be frozen in John's agony forever. And that would be fine. It would be.

"I liked her wit", Sherlock said finally.

"Yeah... she's funny. Quirky funny. I like that about her. Drew me to her right away. When she came into my office to interview, I thought hey, there's one who'll run circles around me, and I won't mind."

Just like me, Sherlock thought, but he was wise enough not to speak. "She was kind", Sherlock offered instead.

"You mean, when she didn't shoot you."

"Yes, there's that. But she didn't mean to."

"Of course she did."

"Yeah. She did."

"But you forgave her."

"Only because I knew she'd never shoot you."

"Not too sure about that."

Neither am I, Sherlock thought, but instead he said: "She loved you."

"Not too sure about that either."

"I am though."

Sherlock felt John's head move against his in a question. "Are you?"

"Why, yes, of course. I'm certain she loved you. She was complex though. She might have loved more about you that just you, the security you brought, a new life for her. A new start. But seriously, she wouldn't have needed to marry you to... Yes, I am sure."

John thought about that. "She didn't love me enough to trust me."

"Those are two different things."

"Not for me."

"No, not for you."

John took a deep breath and held it, and Sherlock knew what was coming because they'd been there many times before. "But", John managed, "The child, Sherlock, the child!" And Sherlock hugged him and rocked him back and forth and made sure his friend wouldn't choke on his grief.

 

* * *

"Why did she jump? Sherlock? Why did she jump?"

Because she didn't trust any of us, only herself, and this was the only thing she could do without relying on anyone, Sherlock thought. Because she'd rather be dead than face consequences. But what he said was: "Because those idiots had her cornered like an animal."

"Who were they?"

"Mycroft will find out eventually."

"There'll be consequences. There will be. Right?"

"I'm sure there will be."

 

* * *

"There isn't going to be a funeral, is there", asked John.

Sherlock had checked, had checked many things over the past two days. "You can have a funeral if you want to. A proper grave, or just a stone, you can have a ceremony, whatever you like."

"But she's not-"

"She doesn't have to be for us to remember her. Celebrate what she was."

"What was she?"

"You know what she was. Who she was. You think you don't, but you do."

"Here lies Mary Watson, whose real name I don't know, who killed herself and my child because she didn't want to go to prison. Something like that?"

Sherlock thought about that, felt John tense up and knew that raging against Mary, Mary who had left him so thoroughly, might be part of the healing process and allowed.

"Maybe 'Here lies Mary Watson, beloved wife, mother of my child. I don't know everything about her, but I loved her nonetheless.'"

John was silent for so long that Sherlock thought he'd fallen asleep. "I'll let you write the epitaph then", he said lightly.

"That's not what I would say."

"What would you say?"

"'Here lies Mary Watson. She was loved.'"

"Not very eloquent."

"Oh, if you want to go for eloquent-"

"No, it's... it's fine."

 

* * *

"That wasn't really her name, you know."

"I know, John."

"If I had only known her real name, maybe she wouldn't have-"

"She would have."

"It's just... I keep thinking about that, keep replaying it in my head, again and again, and if we had only been there earlier, if we'd found her sooner, I think we might have, we might have-"

"She made a choice, John. She did. Not you. Not I."

"Yes, but if we had found her earlier, she..."

John's voice trailed off. They'd had that discussion so many times before. John never tired of it, and Sherlock never tired of trying to talk John out of it. He'd seen two people jump to their deaths. Once would have been more than anyone should ever have to experience. Sherlock felt his own guilt acutely during these conversations, and that did nothing to make it easier for either of them. John replayed the situation endlessly, adding and subtracting variables and altering the scene until he reached a conclusion in which Mary didn't die, where he could take her home with him and live happily ever after. But by then, he had altered so many variables that the situation had very little semblance to reality. It all boiled down to this, Sherlock thought, if Mary hadn't been an assassin, if John hadn't been attracted to danger, she would have lived. But they'd never met. Sherlock sighed.

"She jumped. John. Never forget that. She jumped. Not you."

"They didn't find her body."

"No."

"Maybe-"

"Not even I could pull this off."

"Yeah, but-"

"John."

"I know, Sherlock, I know. But-"

"Mycroft is still looking."

"Now that's a relief", John said, and it was so close to his usual Mycroft-snubbing Sherlock almost reached out to hug him.


	4. Chapter 4

John slept a lot. Sherlock estimated he spent about 18 hours asleep, and he was only fine with that after he had done some research and found that this was a normal reaction to a catastrophic loss. The good thing about this was that he could leave him alone for short periods of time. Lestrade came calling when John slept and brought clothes for both of them and a shoebox with photographs from John's house but otherwise, he didn't bring news. She hadn't been found yet. Lestrade looked like he'd been crying and hugged Sherlock hard, which struck Sherlock as odd but comforting all in all. Donovan emerged from the shadows when her boss turned to leave and pressed a bouquet onto Sherlock. "From all of us. For _John_ ", she said emphasized ridiculously, as if he would ever keep flowers for himself.  
He met Mrs. Hudson in the lobby, and she cried and cried and cried and hugged him and told him to bring John home. He promised he would.  
Molly bought him a coffee he didn't like because if meant leaving the hotel and John, and he didn't know if that was such a good idea.

"I'm sorry", she said, "I just thought you might want to get out of that hotel for a moment."

"Why would I?"

"Because you're you?"

For a moment, he felt like telling her then, telling her that there wasn't anything boring about being there for John, but it was Molly after all, and she didn't need explanations. "Sorry, Sherlock. I know. I shouldn't have... Why did she jump, Sherlock? Did she really jump?"

"You know why she jumped."

Molly looked at him with her kind eyes that disguised her sharp mind. "Because she never believed for a second she would die."

"She was a sociopath", Sherlock nodded. Molly placed her hand on his too quickly not to be awkward. "Unlike you", she said. "Go back to John, you won't make it to the bottom of your coffee anyway."  
  
And so he did. He lay down on the duvet on his side of the bed next to John, who slept on. Soon, he'd wake up, and he'd talk or maybe he wouldn't, and it would be worse or it would be better. Another day would have passed. One more day towards the day when he'd be fine. Fine in a sense of not this, not infinitely crippled by grief. He would be. He had to be. Sherlock would make him. He wriggled until his head touched John's, their bodies forming a big inverted V, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

"Are you moving back in?"

A jerk of John's head next to Sherlock's told him how raw that question still was.

"Sherlock, I..."

"I'm not sure you should be on your own."

When John didn't answer, Sherlock touched his head lightly against his, just once, to tell him he still listened.

"It could just be for a little while, John. Until you move back into your house. It's a crime scene at the moment. Lestrade tells me it's still not cleared."

John tensed, and Sherlock realized John hadn't thought about that until just now. "A crime scene."

"Don't worry, you're not implicated."

"They'll go over every little thing, everything, our photographs, our emails, our clothes, everything."

"Lestrade did bring some photographs for you. You could surely have other things as well. Things that have been cleared."

John let that sink in, but Sherlock could tell he relaxed. "Just until I-"

"It never stopped being your home, John. Think of it - think of it as your home in the city."

"That sounds almost bourgeois", John laughed, and Sherlock basked in that sound, thinking how wonderful it would be to hear that sound in 221b Baker Street again.  
  
Sherlock woke up because his arm had gone to sleep. His arm had gone to sleep because John lay on it, his back to Sherlock. After two days and nights in this hotel room, having John next to him had become almost familiar, but right then and there, Sherlock saw it for what it was, a huge gift. He inhaled the scent of John's hair and felt his warmth, and it made his heart flip. For an instant, he could see himself wrap his arms around John's compact body, draw him near and bury his face in his hair and kiss the nape of his neck and then kiss his way down his neck to where neck and shoulder meet, slip his hands underneath the jumper and the T-shirt and hold him closer, his hand where John's heart thumped, holding him close and never letting anything hurt him ever again. All he did, though, was dip his nose towards John's head, nuzzling him, just for a second, and then he dragged his arm out from underneath John and turned around.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

"I think I'm getting better", John announced. Sherlock, cross-legged on the bed, put his phone away and assessed him. He knew that realistically, he could expect the first phase of a catastrophic loss like this to abate after two or three months, not three days, and that being able to wash himself and drink and eat an apple and two satsumas in three days didn't necessarily qualify as better. But he also knew John's episodes of hopeless mourning had become a bit less frequent and the intervals of lucidity had become longer, and that he needed to know there'd be progress.  
"Of course you are", he told him, honestly. "You're the strongest person I know."  
  
And then John kissed him. It was the thing he'd thought least possible, Sherlock thought, but he guessed it made sense, if this was withdrawal, maybe John did need his methadone. And then he wondered how he was able to think at all. Not that Sherlock was an expert in this field, but he thought the kiss was urgent and forceful, a far cry from any kiss he'd ever had before. This was something else, John took his mouth with bruising urgency, John's hands catching fistfuls of Sherlock's hair and holding on.  He tasted of sweet tea and John and satsumas and Sherlock found himself kissing back, touching his tongue to John's, exploring his mouth as if they'd always been kissing. He drew back, out of breath, but John followed, licking at his lips until he let him in again, tipping him over on the bed. John slipped one hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, dragging it up and out of his trousers, and he ran his hand over Sherlock's chest, only just skimming his nipples and then moving down towards his hip bone, stopping just above the bone where his body was soft and tender.  He kissed him deeply while he moved his hand just so, and Sherlock felt his body move against his will, he broke the kiss and gasped, arching his back in search of friction. John chose that moment to slide his hand underneath him for leverage. Sherlock felt John's erection against him, and this felt so good and so right, and he knew he only had to stay silent, do nothing, and he'd be - they'd be -  
  
"No. No. Not like this", he managed and fought to untangle himself, to get away from the pressure and the friction that promised - that promised everything. John didn't let go, he nuzzled his neck where it met the collar bone and bit down softly just there, and this was perfect, this was wonderful, and while Sherlock fought to get away from this, John's full weight came to rest on him, and there was the friction he craved, and he bucked against him once despite himself.  
  
"Don't tell me you don't want this", said John, his breath hot against Sherlock's ear, and he screwed his eyes shut against this, because this, if he had had this much imagination, would have been his favourite fantasy.

"I want this", Sherlock admitted and regretted it immediately because John's hand had moved lower, and he could tell that if he only- "I want this, but not like this. Not like this. John."

John withdrew the tiniest bit and Sherlock resisted the urge to draw him back in, to tear his ridiculous jumper off him and lick his way down - "I want this", Sherlock repeated, his head clearing by the second, which wasn't welcome at all, "But I want you to want this, and not... I don't want this to be - for comfort?"  
  
John drew back then and looked down at him. For the first time, Sherlock was unable to read him, and he wondered if that was because his blood was elsewhere. Wondered if he had wasted his only chance to ever have sex with anyone, let alone John, if he had made a horrible mistake, if he had lost John forever by denying him this. John's lips were red from kissing and his hair was deliciously dishevelled because Sherlock had pushed his hands through it and he felt like kissing him again, kissing him desperately and never letting go.

"Sherlock Holmes, ever the romantic", John said and was off, gone so fast the mattress protested with a squeak. Sherlock heard the bathroom door and thought he knew what John would do there. He wondered briefly if John thought of him, and the thought made him throb so painfully he knew it wouldn't take much. But he also knew John would know, and he didn't want that. So he turned on his side and breathed and thought of something else, anything, but always came back to John's hands on him and John's tongue in his mouth, and he was about give in when the bathroom door opened again and John dropped down on the bed next to him.  
  
John touched his shoulder, lightly at first, then with more force, turning him around on his back and looking at him and through him. "John", Sherlock said, desperately, though he wondered what exactly he was begging for. John bowed down, and Sherlock didn't know if to lean in or to flinch. But John just smoothed Sherlock's hair back from his brow. "I'm sorry", he whispered against his brow and pressed a kiss right there, soft and tender and lasting forever. And somehow, that was worse, because whereas before he'd almost completely undone him physically, this undid his heart. Sherlock closed his eyes in resignation, hopelessly torn between everything in him that wanted to move ever closer to John, and his mind that forbid it as unwise. Then the moment passed, and John lay down with his head on Sherlock's chest, their legs intertwined, and was gone. All that was left for Sherlock was to put his arm around John. Everything he'd ever felt for him seemed to clot in his stomach at that moment, and he couldn't contain it any longer. His mouth in John's hair, he whispered: "I'm horribly in love with you, John Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

They moved back into Baker Street the next day. They'd come to an unspoken consensus, and it gave them something to do, something that wasn't talking about what had happened last night. John showered and made himself presentable while Sherlock settled the bill. They took a cab without consulting on the destination. Mrs. Hudson wasn't in when they arrived, and Sherlock thought it for the best, she would have fussed and cried and made a scene. John stood at the door for a long time. So long in fact that Sherlock wished he had given the apartment a good scrubbing, but he'd been occupied with other things. But it wasn't any different from before, he thought when John vanished upstairs to reclaim his room.

Sherlock made tea. It was something he'd become quite good at, with John out of the house, but he thought he never would be as good as John.  
"I can't wait for you to make tea", he said when he heard John on the stairs. But John didn't reply, he simply walked into the kitchen and hugged him from behind. That was so unexpected Sherlock almost dropped the tea pot, but he somehow managed to set it down on the counter, squirm around without breaking contact and hug him back, fiercely. John needed physical contact, he told himself, it was an animalistic necessity. That's what they were, Sherlock thought, just two primates clinging to each other after the jaguar had struck. Eventually, they'd both stop grieving and John would seek his comfort elsewhere, as he'd done before. He'd be be fine with that. He'd have to be. It was normal. It'd mean John healed, and wasn't that what he wanted? But it seemed awfully harsh just then and there. Just helping him through hard times, Sherlock told himself, drowning in John's touch, just doing what friends did.  
  


* * *

There were things that had to be done. Formalities. The police needed to be dealt with, the house needed to be boarded up. John needed things that were inside his house. A death certificate to be issued. Bank accounts had to be claimed. A will had to be found. A funeral had to be planned.  When someone departed, society filled the hole with paperwork.  
  
John tried mightily. But he kept drifting off and descended into that dark space Sherlock knew so well, he fell quickly for the horrible attraction of depression. It was one thing to see him cry - that was almost easy, Sherlock knew he'd stop eventually and sober up and that it still helped if Sherlock locked him in a tight embrace until it was over. That meant he could do something about it. It was another thing entirely to see him sit at the breakfast table and stare at nothing, grey and silent and entirely absent, and no words or and no touch could get him out of there. Sherlock tried. After that one hug on that one morning, he found he embraced John a lot, just drew him in and held him, and it sometimes worked and sometimes didn't. When John was in that faraway place, it felt like hugging a doll, but Sherlock hung on anyway. It was better when he talked endlessly about Mary and the baby and about plans for the future they'd had, even his bouts of rage were more bearable than this, this plunge into a void Sherlock knew to be addictive.  
  
What a cruel inversion of things. Sherlock had helped them plan a wedding, and now he planned Mary's funeral, and, again, right down to the seating and the serviettes. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to obtain a death certificate even though legally, Mary didn't actually exist (Sherlock suspected Mycroft's hand in this). He also suspected John needed to be a part of this even though he still wasn't able to focus for long, but the funeral home's attendants were calm and helpful and professional and presented them with tasteful choices in the solemn style of their profession.  
And in the end, it was a tasteful affair. A much loved local doctor burying his wife and unborn baby attracted a crowd of well-meaning mourners, the wake turned out to be comfortingly traditional, and John adopted the role of a widower with an ease that spoke of his familiarity with all things life and death, and he slipped into some kind of acceptance through the rituals. This is what it's about, Sherlock thought, the burial, the rituals. To help you adopt a role, and in this role, obtain a distance from what might otherwise kill you. He was just another man who had lost his wife and child and buried them, Sherlock thought, just another widower of many, one small voice of mourning lost in the grand chorus of human suffering.  
  
For the next few weeks, they waded through strangely lifeless flowers and cards and casseroles and cake and other things delivered by people Sherlock wouldn't consider friends, but who were. And it became a routine for Sherlock, to look at John when he came down from his room and evaluate his depression. He even kept a journal. And then, just like that, the day came and he was better.  
  
"You're better this morning."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Don't make me look at your bloody chart."

"Profanity. You don't use profanity when you're severely depressed." Sherlock ticked a box on a spreadsheet.

"I am severely depressed."

"You don't talk back either." Another tick.

That shut John up, and Sherlock grinned. He poured tea for John and set his toast in front of him. Another inversion, he thought, but that was okay, it felt good to make toast for John.

"I don't want toast."

"I don't care, John."

Sherlock buttered toast and plopped jam on top of it and nudged it towards John, who looked at it for a long time and then pushed it away. "No. I'm sick of toast. You know what I want? I want a croissant and a roll and, oh, I want one of these Danish they sell at Speedy's. Know what I mean?"

Of course Sherlock knew. He was out the door and down the stairs before he even registered what he was doing. God, but this was special. John had shown an active interest in food. He had requested food even. He had - had he just tricked him to get him out of the house? To be alone? To - no. Sherlock was down and in the queue at Speedy's before he grasped the possible implications, and he just dropped a tenner on the counter and grabbed his bag, pushed his way past the other patrons and took the stairs in giant leaps. Out of breath, he stormed into the flat and half expected to find John with his brains blown out or his throat slit, but what he saw was John - making tea? John looking up at him in disbelief?

"Did you run?"

Sherlock was too out of breath and too relieved to answer.

"I could have survived without pastries for another minute maybe, but thank you", he said, his brow knit in consternation. And then, Sherlock hugged him and held him so close and hugged him so hard that John gave a smothered cough, so he let him up a bit and pressed a forceful kiss on his temple before letting him go.

"For a moment there", he explained breathlessly, "For a moment, I thought you'd tried to get me out of the house to... to..." he made a vague gesture, unable to say it.

John's face fell, but then he smiled, a small smile but one that reached his eyes. "I'm not doing that", he said. "Promise." He lifted his hand and Sherlock thought he'd touch his face, but then the kettle boiled, and the moment had passed.

"Was there something wrong with the tea I made?" Sherlock asked, honestly taken aback, and laughed when John said: "It's bloody awful and you know it."  
  


* * *

John never returned to his house. Not once. Sherlock went over the wreckage with Lestrade and gathered anything he thought John would want now and some things he thought John would want later. These he locked away in storage. Then, the house was sold discreetly. Visits at Mary's grave became a regular occurrence until one day in November when John looked up at the empty sky and said: "She's not even here."

Sherlock thought about it and said: "Does she have to be?"

"There are places that are more Mary than this."

"She'll always be with you, John."

"You know", said John, "I thought the same thing about you. That I felt a connection even though you were dead. I did feel that connection, see. But that was different. You were still alive. What does it mean that I still feel the same about Mary?"

"I don't know, John. If you're looking for an answer along the lines of religion, I could tell you that many people believe we carry on after death. Many don't. If you want to know if she's still alive, I could tell you it's very unlikely. If you want to know if it's all inside your head, I'd tell you I don't think it is, but I have no proof for any of this."

John thought about that for a long time. Finally, he let his flowers fall on Mary's grave.

"Fair enough. I guess. Let's go."  



	7. Chapter 7

Christmas was bad. Come Christmas morning, John was in a glum mood and Sherlock began to bristle against it, his own moodiness and depression craving for attention, held in check only because he knew John needed him to function. But life ground to a halt before Christmas, cases wouldn't come, and even though John had taken up working at the clinic again, he spent what Sherlock thought an inordinate amount of time being depressed. And to be honest, by now Sherlock needed a) a case, b) cheering up and c) John, preferably happy. He just didn't know how to get there. He recalled last Christmas, when the bullet wound in his chest had still been painful, and he recalled putting a bullet through Magnusson's head. Since then, he'd reclaimed a large part of his life, he thought. He wasn't in exile, and John was back.  
  
John was back. And though he had tried to delete it (or at least tried to hide it in the bottom drawer of the least important dresser in his mind palace), that night at the hotel had somehow found its way to every room of his mind palace, was always there when he had nothing else to think about, and far too often when he should have thought about other things. There hadn't been anything like _that_ since then. They'd touched, they had hugged, in fact, they embraced each other often. When John came home from the clinic and had had a bad day, he drew an arm around Sherlock and initiated a hug, which Sherlock was all too happy to give. Sherlock, on the other hand, found it hard, he didn't know where the boundaries were, when it was appropriate for friends to touch and when it meant crossing a line.

He thought about crossing the line and looked up from his papers to glance at John guiltily, as if John could read his thoughts, and found he had fallen asleep on the sofa. That was preferable to moping, but also boring. But he looked nice in the warm Christmas lighting and his ridiculous Christmas jumper he wore mainly for Mrs. Hudson's benefit. Sherlock had to decide, he thought, had to decide where this was going. He knew what he wanted. Had known it from the start, but first Moriarty and then Mary had thwarted every hope he'd had, and until that _night_ , he hadn't even had much. He knew it was too early now. Or was it? It hadn't been a year. You gave someone a year. Inappropriate. Not that he gave a damn about appearances - almost everyone thought John had already defaulted to his former lover already. What he wanted, though, was for John not to default to him, but to actually fall for him. He wanted him to be happy first and then happy with him later. Sherlock sighed. He probably was a romantic after all.  
It was time to do something. Time for action. He placed several phone calls, texted, and then dressed.  
  
A little while later, he sat down on the sofa next to John, who was still fast asleep but woke up when the sofa moved under Sherlock's weight. John's eyes were unfocused and roamed around before latching on to Sherlock with a smile. "Hey." Sherlock thought that John waking up was his favourite thing in the world, right up there with everything else about John, and he smiled down at him, only just resisting the sudden and absurd impulse to kiss his nose.

"Hey, John. Slept well?"

"How long did you let me sleep?"

"It's not even noon yet."

"Oh, good."

"Time to get up though" Sherlock said and stood. "Come. We have a Christmas party to attend."

"What?"

"It's Christmas, and we're going to a party."

"But you don't go to parties."

"Yeah. But you do. So we're going."

"But, we didn't even get presents, and I-"

"Dense as usual, John. I'm bringing you. You are the present."

  
He hadn't meant it quite so literally though. The party at Janine's was in full swing when they arrived. Janine squealed and hugged them both and dragged them over to where she kept the punch, a glaring, red affair that smelled dangerous. Molly spotted them as soon as they came in and waved, Lestrade interrupted his flirting long enough to clap them both on the back. Sherlock had made sure there were people who knew and liked John on top of the group of impossibly young and attractive strangers Janine seemed to know, and he'd made sure they all knew John needed a bit of fun and shouldn't necessarily be quizzed about his dead wife. Sherlock hovered around for a while to make sure and then fell back to watch, sipping on a glass of punch.

"He's doing well", remarked Janine.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock said, though he thought John did, and he was a bit proud of himself.

"Yeah! It's not even been a year. It's been what, six months?"

"Eight and a half."

"Eight and a half! How long have they been married then before -"

"Seven months."

"So he's been a widower longer than-"

"Acutely observed. Janine, we might make a master sleuth of you yet", Sherlock said and took another sip.

"I know! And it's not hard! You only tell everyone that to look cool. I bet I could beat you at deductions."

"If you're talking about your tax return again, I'll drop this punch and leave."

Janine laughed, jabbed him with her elbow and leaned in. "Let's play. Which one of my girls is going to fall for John first?"

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. "I'm not sure he's in the game."

"Of course he is. A widowed doctor, handsome and tragic. A widower hasn't botched up his marriage. You brought prime bachelor material to my party."

"I didn't realise I might be eligible for a commission", Sherlock said, trying to make light of it but failing.

"My money's on Kat. Too thin accountant, dark hair, by the window."

Sherlock saw her, and he did see the look she shot his friend. She wasn't too thin. She was athletic in a way long distance runners are, and very beautiful, and she looked at John like a cat who'd seen a very fat bird with a broken wing. On a silver platter. Tied to a stake with a silk ribbon.

"You think so?" But Sherlock thought so too.

"Absolutely! You don't? Aaah, yes, you do. Come. I'll introduce you to the guys. Oh, and here, have another punch first."

"I'd rather have a-"

"No, you won't, punch it is. Come on. Have fun. It's Christmas!"  
  
The party wore on, and Sherlock found a dark place to hide and not get drunk. And watch. John did have fun, but he hadn't quite intended that much fun. Kat was first, but she wasn't the only one. Ellen was next, someone closer to his age, a bit bland, but nice. Then Nicole, and by then John was a bit drunk and in excellent spirits, better than Sherlock had seen him for ages. He seemed happy. He gets on with women, Sherlock thought. Of course he's happy. He sees his life isn't over, that he still has choices and another shot at happiness. Children. John could have it all and probably realized that now. Could leave Mary behind. Nothing to it. You lose someone, you mourn, you move on. Humans had done that for millennia.  
  
"Merry Christmas." Molly had sneaked up on him. Only Molly managed to sneak up on him.

"Mhmhm."

"He seems happy."

"Yes, he does, doesn't he."

Molly was quiet for a while. "You're a good man for doing this for him."

"Take him to a party? Nah."

"Not that. Well, that too I think because I know you hate parties, or at least, you never came to mine but then I think maybe Janine's are just better. No, I mean - this."

She pointed to John, who laughed raucously at something Nicole or Kat or Melissa had said to him, stars in his eyes, happy, flirting. Molly did that thing again, that awkward half pat, half hand-holding she did, and said: "Greg and I are taking a cab back to town. Would you like to join us."

Sherlock took one look at John who leaned in on Ellen or whoever it was and whispered something that made her laugh. He nodded and fetched his coat.  



	8. Chapter 8

Around three in the morning, Sherlock had come to accept two things: He wouldn't fall asleep, and John wouldn't come home tonight. No, three things: He also missed him. Four: He was horribly, horribly jealous. They'd lived together for so long, and Sherlock had endured such a string of girlfriends that he knew exactly what would happen. He'd go home with her. Drink coffee or pretend to. Sometimes, they made it to his room before they started to snog, most of the time, they'd eat each other's faces right there in the kitchen. Or in the living room. In any case close enough for Sherlock to hear everything. He'd whisper things. She'd giggle. Or worse. When they were upstairs, he'd try not to listen, but he had to, and nothing was left to imagination.

Sherlock knew. He'd seen it all. And he thought if there was a way to un-hear, un-see, un-feel these things, he had to find it, because now, all of this was so much worse. He'd been there with him, he'd been the one kissing him and he'd been the one John's hands caressed. He'd been there. So from now on, whenever he thought of John screwing one of his girlfriends, he'd know just what it was like to feel him hard against his belly. Sherlock curled up on his bed and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. But it wouldn't. When morning came and he hadn't slept yet, he got up, made tea, and played the violin until Mrs. Hudson came up with proper tea and biscuits and Christmas cookies and a lot of sympathy, alerted by sad music filtering down into her apartment.  
  
John came home in the afternoon, red-eyed, maniacal for lack of sleep and in excellent mood, smelling faintly of someone else's shampoo. Well. At least he had showered. Sherlock interrupted his playing long enough to acknowledge his presence.

"Had a good night?"

"Yes. It was great. Thank you", John smiled and rummaged around in the kitchen for leftovers. Sherlock picked up the violin and tried to ignore John, who sniffed a box of Chinese takeaway. "Didn't see you leave. When did you go?"

"Oh, around eleven."

"That early?"

"Molly and Greg offered to share a cab."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you were in good hands."

Sherlock heard the *thunk* of takeaway hitting the trash can bottom. He lifted the bow and began to play. Anything, he thought. Anything would do. Just end this conversation, please, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, whoever, come to my aid and don't let him see.   
But John wouldn't be John if he hadn't been stubborn. He moved between Sherlock and the window, occupying almost his entire field of view. Sherlock closed his eyes and played on until he felt a hand on his arm and had to stop.

"Sherlock", John said. "Are you jealous?"

Sherlock tried to escape John's grip, but John held on. "I had fun. I didn't see you leave. So what?"

"Let go of my arm."

"As soon as you tell me what's wrong."

"Let go of my arm, John."  
  
John did that, and Sherlock regretted it immediately. John threw his hands up in exasperation and took a step back. "Suit yourself. Fine. Play sad music. I'll pop down the street and get some Indian. You want some? No? Fine! See, it's all fine. Just like old times. You mope, I leave. Just like old times."  
The door slammed, and he was gone.   
  
The flat empty and dark, Sherlock stopped playing and just stood there, by the window, numb all over. Like old times. Maybe he didn't want the old times back after all. Maybe he liked some things about the new times better. It seemed though that the lure of old times was too strong for them to overcome, and maybe that needed to be accepted as such? He lifted the bow and started playing, defaulting on Bach for clarity but fumbling through the piece so horribly he gave up eventually. Clarity was hard to come by apparently.  
  
"Are you just going to stand there or what?"  
He almost dropped the violin then. John was back, and he hadn't heard him come in. Even though he was loaded with bags (Tesco's and Indian, he concluded, John went through milk so fast it had to be unhealthy), he hadn't heard him, and now he glowered at Sherlock, who shrunk back first and then jumped into action, cleared the kitchen table, distributed the contents of those bags between the table and the fridge and set the table for the two of them while John hung his coat on the rack and took off his shoes. You do forget he used to be a soldier, Sherlock smiled. He did know how to give orders. He also noticed then John had bought him his favourite Indian takeaway after all. 

They lit the lights, and John placed one of the many candles Mrs. Hudson had brought (for the spirits to find their way or something or other, Sherlock had deleted it the moment she had said it) on the table. And then, he produced a small package from his coat and handed it to Sherlock without any further ado. 

"What's that?"

"What do you think it is? Sherlock. It's Christmas, which makes this?"

"A Christmas present. I didn't get you anything."

"You took me to a party. You hate parties." 

I hate them even more now, Sherlock thought, but John practically beamed at him. He opened the package.  "That's - that's-"

"I guess you like it then. It has three stages of magnification instead of two like your old loupe. It also handles nicer and the casing isn't cracked. It's lighter, but sturdier. It's made from-"

"Carbon fibre", Sherlock breathed, "You bought me a new compact collapsible Zeiss magnifying glass with a carbon case. You bloody idiot."

"I knew you'd like it", John laughed, looking very smug. Sherlock lunged across the table and hugged him so hard he almost toppled the table. "Easy now, easy", laughed John. "Merry Christmas. And you're the idiot. Now eat."

"I love it", Sherlock said, and he did. Just then, he realized why he had been mad at John in the first place, and he felt his smile fade. John tore into his food with an enthusiasm that could only mean...

"Do I have anything on my face?" John asked.

"No."

"Then why - Sherlock. Come on. Next time you leave a party, tell me. I'm not the world's most observant man. You are."

"I thought you -"

"Right there", John said, pointing with his fork, "There's your problem. No, sorry. What did you think?"

"I thought you'd rather stay."

At that, John slammed his fork onto the table, seriously upset now, and Sherlock froze, didn't know what he'd done. "No", John said, his voice dangerously low, "That is not what you thought. You thought - and you still think - that I took one of those silly girls half my age to bed last night. That's what you think. And I cannot believe I'm having this conversation with you! No, I did not fuck Ellen, or Nicole, or Kathy or whatever their names were. None of them. For the first time since... since, I had fun and I didn't feel guilty about it, not one bit! And I thought you'd come over, but you staid in your little nook with Janine, and then I didn't see you anymore, and when I realized you were gone, I couldn't get a cab back because half of London was on their way home by then, and Janine offered me a lilo that deflated basically right away and I'm telling you, I'm far too old to sleep on the floor, but I did. In the living room in between Patrick and Mark who were so drunk I couldn't decide whether to call an ambulance or just use them for pillows. I helped tidy the flat the next day and took Janine to a pharmacy and made sure Mark or Will or whatever his name was didn't choke on his vomit instead of going home with you! That's what happened last night."   
Sherlock was so shocked he was sure his mouth had hung open during the entire rant. He closed it by sheer force of will. John shook his head and suddenly grinned and then laughed: "God, what a perfect party. We're invited for New Year's Eve. And we are going."  
  
Sherlock ruminated on that while he picked at this food and shot glances at John, who finished his meal in record time, sat back, and studied Sherlock. Then he said: "Are you going to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"That you're jealous."

"No."

"No what?"

"I'm not going to admit it."

At that, John laughed, stretched, and stood up from the dinner table. "I'm off to bed. In the immortal words of Bruce Willis, I'm getting too old for this shit."  
Sherlock must have looked stricken because John reached over, ruffled his hair and said: "And by that I meant sleeping on the floor."  
  
  
After their exchange, Sherlock found it impossible to sleep. Even though he was tired beyond belief, his heart beat too fast, he was too alert, it would have been futile to go to bed, and so he didn't. He sat at the table and read papers, picked up a book and surfed the internet in no particular order and sometimes all three at once, thought about playing the violin but discarded that thought when he realized John would hear and wake up. He even thought about clearing the kitchen and taking stock of his experiments that were in various stages of decay, but found he couldn't be bothered. He needed to occupy his mind to take it off other things, and he did that so thoroughly he didn't notice John until he was almost at the desk.

"Can't sleep?"

"I can hear you thinking upstairs."

"Unlikely. Unless you developed psychic abilities, in which case you wouldn't have come down here to complain. Case closed!"

"I'll put that on my blog tomorrow. How about you? Can't sleep?"

"Is that mimicry or a failed attempt at wit?"

"Was that meant to be funny or insulting?"

"How about both?"

John smiled at that. "Doing research?"

"Yes, I thought I'd read up on - uh... bunnyhop competitions in Denmark."

"Sounds fascinating."

"It is!"

"Do you mind if I take the sofa, and you do your research?"

Sherlock didn't mind one bit to have John here with him where he could steal glances at him while John slept. Actually, it was one of his favourite things in the world. But instead he said: "Isn't that going to be murder on your shoulder?"

"After last night? Nah."  
  
John plopped down on the sofa and turned over on his side, facing Sherlock. Wrong way around, Sherlock thought - if he didn't fall asleep, Sherlock couldn't pretend he wasn't watching him. In fact, John seemed to watch him, and that was hugely distracting. So instead, Sherlock relocated over to the sofa and sat down on the floor in front of it, leaning against the sofa, facing the flat, pretending to read something on his laptop. There. Close, but nothing would give him away. That would do it.  
Only it didn't. He hadn't even sat there for two minutes when he felt John's hand sorting through his locks in a most distracting way. Sherlock sighed. It was always like that. People seemed to have their hands in his hair all the time. John was the only person whose hands were welcome, though, and so he leaned in a tiny bit, certain John wouldn't notice, but enough for him to scratch his scalp right there. Instead, John very gently tugged at a fistful of hair. "Come up here."   
Sherlock faltered. "John..."

"I miss this, you know. I miss you I guess."

Sherlock would have dropped the laptop right then, but he managed to set it aside and clamber onto the sofa without looking at John, who held up the blanket for him to crawl under. There was just enough space for both of them, but it was very tight. John put an arm around Sherlock to close the gap, and Sherlock tucked his own head into the nook of John's neck where it fit so perfectly. (That meant his legs were folded up the armrest on the other side, but that was a small price to pay.)  
John closed his eyes and sighed, one hand resting lightly on Sherlock's nape, clearly intending to sleep.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Is this crossing a line?"

John opened one eye and glanced at him. "Crossing a line?"

"This isn't what friends do, is it?"

John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before answering, and his lips ghosted over Sherlock's brow when he said: "We crossed that line long ago. Before Mary even." He kissed his brow then, chaste and proper, before burying his nose in Sherlock's hair. "Do you mind?"

"No", Sherlock said perhaps too quickly. But he couldn't relax. Though it was tempting to give in and accept this for whatever it was, he couldn't.

"You know", started John, "We should go into town tomorrow. You could buy me a Christmas present."

"I'm not overly familiar with Scottish traditions, but in London, Christmas ends tonight."

"It's a Watson family tradition to forget Christmasses and birthdays and buy a pair of socks or a tie the day after."

"You're not serious."

"I am."

"You want a pair of socks?"

"I want you" - another small kiss on his brow, which was extremely distracting - "to take me into town tomorrow where you'll buy me something nice to wear to Janine's party."

"Okay? But not a jumper again. How about I buy you something I like, a nice shirt maybe? Purple?"

"You're the only person in the world that can pull off a purple shirt, Sherlock."

"Haven't you noticed I try to lead by example?"

"Sherlock. Look at you. You're thin and pale and extremely handsome. I'm short and pudgy and bland. I need something to cover myself, not to show off."

"You think I'm handsome?"

"You don't object to me being short, pudgy and bland?"

"Your words, not mine."

"What would yours be then?"

Wonderful, Sherlock thought. Fascinating, never bland, distracting, strong, smart, powerfully built. Sweet, abrasive. Warm. Very warm right now and you smell good and I want to-  "Perfect", he whispered instead, very softly. But John had heard, and he kissed him again and pulled him a little closer. There he was, he thought, sharing a sofa and a blanket with John, his heart so big in his chest he almost choked on it. It was more than he'd ever thought he'd have, and it scared him. But then, sometimes you had to take a leap, didn't you. Even if that leap was snuggling just a little closer and breathing a content sigh before falling asleep in someone else's arms.   
  
  
  
They did go into town the next day, and they did buy something nice for John to wear, and it turned out to be a nice pair of jeans and the inevitably cable-knit jumper. Sherlock guessed old habits died hard, shrugged, and bought a black shirt for himself. They had coffee downtown and fled the sleet and rain by ducking into Barts where they had another coffee with Molly, who looked at them and beamed.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

New Year's Eve arrived when they hadn't even made a dent in their motherlode of cookies bachelors and widowers seemed to attract either because they couldn't be trusted baking their own, which Sherlock found an insolent preconception because it was science after all, and an experiment with amazingly few variables at that, or because they thought widowers needed a lot of sugar. He wasn't sure which yet. But that was what he thought about when John came down, already dressed for the party in his new jeans and jumper.

"You look good in it", Sherlock said. "I'll never admit to saying that, so don't quote me."

"That is a nice shirt", John replied. "I'll tell anyone who asks."

"Thank you." Sherlock suspected he looked pleased, because somehow, John's eyes reflected that, and the next thing he knew, he'd pulled John into an embrace.  
  
It could have ended there, Sherlock thought, with his nose in John's hair, surrounded by his warmth and scent, and that might have been enough on any other evening. But it wasn't now, and he dipped his head and kissed John's neck, which could still have been the end of it had not John slipped his hands underneath Sherlock's shirt and then down into this trousers that were too tight for this and getting tighter. Had not Sherlock left John's neck alone and moved his way up to John's mouth and touched his lips to John's, tenderly at first, then with more urgency, then wet and sloppy and breathless until Sherlock's heart stumbled and he felt he could drown in this sensation, lose his mind and his soul, and it would be okay. He drew back a bit and pressed his brow against John's, fighting for some semblance of control.

"We can stop", whispered John, running his hands over Sherlock's cheek in a curiously tender gesture.

"Do you want to stop?"

John licked his lips. "What I want is... I want to take you to bed. But-"

"Take me to bed", Sherlock said. "God, please."

John's face lit up at that, and that moment was what won Sherlock over, John looking at him like that, his lips red from kissing and his hair dishevelled and his eyes full of stars. Nobody had ever looked at Sherlock like that. John buried his hands in Sherlock's hair and pulled him closer again. Sherlock's legs buckled when he felt John's tongue slide against his.

This was it, and Sherlock thought he didn't need courage for this after all, he just needed to let go. John took his hand and led him into Sherlock's bedroom. He pushed his hands under John's sweater and tried to wrangle if off him, and that was so clumsy John giggled, and Sherlock giggled too, and they both fell onto the bed in a tangle of half-discarded clothing, desperate to get rid of each others' clothes.

"Let me", John said, and Sherlock lay back and watched John open his shirt buttons one by one, the slide of fabric against his skin torture. John bowed down and ran his lips over his collar bone and then down his breast bone, just skimming his side with one hand. Sherlock's back arched to meet him, and he reached up to pull John into a kiss, drawing him closer and onto him and trying to open John's jeans at the same time. That proved to be too ambitious and John helped, wriggled out of his trousers, shoving them off his hips and kicking them away. The feel of his erection against Sherlock's belly was new and exciting, and Sherlock reached down to open his trousers, but John pushed his hands away.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut as John opened his fly and pushed the trousers down to his thighs, effectively hobbling him and then taking him into his mouth. The feeling was unbelievable. Sherlock dug his hands into the sheets to avoid pulling John's hair out and tried to hold out, to make it last and not to come in John's mouth, he gasped John's name in warning, but he didn't stop, on the contrary, he gave one last swirl that sent Sherlock into an orgasm like none before. He came with a stifled cry that seemed to throw his body into space and stop time, and when he came to his senses again, it was to John, smiling down at him.  
Without another word, he reached up and pulled him into a messy kiss, felt John's erection hard and heavy against him. He flipped John on his back, ran his hands over John's body, licked and kissed and explored and learned how John's body rose when he did this and how he gasped when he did that. Taking him into his mouth was weird, but seeing John react to him sent Sherlock into a haze of lust he hadn't thought he'd experience so shortly after an orgasm, and when John came, he slicked himself with him and rode the aftershocks with him and his own orgasm.  
John turned around and collapsed on his chest, panting or laughing or both, shaking from the exertion or his climax or both. With an emotion he might be able to name if he let himself, Sherlock wrapped himself around him and held him close, this panting, sweating, slightly gross human being who had just- had just-  
John lifted his head and planted a breathless kiss on Sherlock's neck. "Are you thinking again?" He scooted up a little and came to rest in Sherlock's arm. That happened so effortlessly, they fit so perfectly...

"Don't think. Not so soon after amazing surprise sex."

"Was this surprise sex?"

"Of course. Did you plan this?"

"No, but-"

John was suddenly very sober and said: "I thought you'd never make a move. That I'd ruined it all when - at the hotel. That was stupid." He touched his nose to Sherlock's in a curious gesture. "This isn't. Hear me? This isn't stupid. Or wrong. Or idiotic. Or too early."

"No?"

"No."

"It was amazing", Sherlock admitted.

"You think so?"

"Of course!"

"You had amazing sex with John Watson?"

"I had amazing sex with John Watson."

"You don't have much to go by, so this isn't quite as flattering as it could be."

"Do you want me to increase the sample size?"

John's eyes narrowed, and he poked him in the ribs. "Depends. Only if that means more sex with me."

"That can be arranged", Sherlock said and kissed him.  
  
  
  
Outside, the sound of partygoers picked up, but Sherlock lay in John's arms, safe and sound. It was so simple, so perfect, just New Year's Eve in London in his lover's arms. His heart jumped at that thought, and he lifted his head to look down at John, who had almost drifted off to sleep. He lazily squinted one eye at him and tried to tug him back onto his chest. "Hey."

"The party, John. We should go. It's not too late."

"Is it?"

"It's still too early actually. Not even eight."

"You serious about this?"

"Sure! We can shag more later", announced Sherlock and started gathering his clothes.

"You are the least romantic person I've ever been with", John complained. Sherlock dropped his load of clothes and tackled John on the bed, wrapping him in arms and legs and holding him so close he made that stifled cough again, then dropping kisses on every surface he could reach. "John Watson", he said, "I love you so much it already breaks my heart looking at you. And I have loved you forever."

"That is a lot of heartbreak then", said John, half choked and half-heartedly fighting Sherlock's death grip.

"I'm serious."

John stopped struggling and went limp. "I know. I've seen you love me." Somehow, he managed to rub his nose against Sherlock's. "You know when I knew I loved you? When you jumped. But then it was too late."

Sherlock let go of John, but he just wrapped himself around Sherlock instead, holding him just as tightly. "Only turns out it wasn't", John whispered and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and when they did show up at the party, everyone could see.  
  
  
  
  
"Is that sex hair on John?" asked Janine when Sherlock had let him out of his sight long enough for her to ask indecent questions.

"It happens to be sex hair", confirmed Sherlock.

"Shezza! You're awfully smug. Even according to your standards."

"Am I now?"

And then she threw her arms around him and squeezed and jumped at the same time, which almost made Sherlock spill his drink and did make him laugh when she squealed: "I'm so happy for you! I'm so happy!"

Which was how Molly and Lestrade heard, and they were happy too.  
  
Not that much later, because they had been late to the party after all, John and Sherlock stood on the balcony with the rest of the party and waited for the fireworks. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off John. He had his arm around him and looked up at the sky where the first stray rockets exploded and illuminated his face, and in that moment, he loved him so much his heart felt like it would burst. John noticed and hugged him back and smiled at him, and when the clock struck twelve and the sky exploded in colour, they were one of those obnoxious couples snogging when everyone else toasted and wished everyone a Happy New Year, but this time, with them, nobody seemed to mind.  



	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft. Of course. He regarded his Sherlock with an expression that made abundantly clear he didn't need to even look at him to know what he had interrupted, but wanted it known he knew anyway.

"Brother dear. Is this a bad time?"

"It is actually."

"Enjoying your honeymoon I see. Sorry. I meant to say 'I couldn't help but overhear'."

"Was there anything you wanted?" Sherlock closed the door behind him. He didn't need John to hear this.

The smirk faded, and Mycroft held out a Manila folder he'd been clutching. "I bring news."

Sherlock knew then. He didn't need to look at the folder, the cloying sympathy emanating from Mycroft told him all he needed to know. The world grew dim and he barely heard Mycroft explain: "This is footage provided by our allies to the west. Last seen in Honduras."

"No doubt?"

"Positive identification."

"The child?"

"No sign of a child."

"What's the plan."

"There's a debate going on. We could call in favours. Either way."

Sherlock looked at the folder, at Mycroft, the door to 221b behind which lay everything he'd ever wanted. At the folder, where everything John had wanted -  but was that even true?

"What do I do? Mycroft. What do I do?"

"The right thing, Sherlock. You always do the right thing."


	11. Public Service Announcement

Sorry, no new chapter, but a public service announcement: The next part of the series is up at http://archiveofourown.org/works/1294636. :-) Starts fluffy, descends into angst, ends fluffy - I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course there'll be a sequel. :-)


End file.
